A New Georgie Girl
by TesubCalle
Summary: CHAPTER 7 now posted. A series of shorter stories that connect and include the events of Who's That Girl to the events of What Child is This, as they pertain to the George Fayne character. A W.5verse story.
1. Talitha Cumi

The events of that night were vague, at best.

She remembered the early evening drive from River Heights into Chicago with her cousin, Bess Marvin, and meeting with her friend, Nancy Drew. She also remembered arriving at the restaurant and the unanimous decision to dine on the outdoor patio since the Fall night was unseasonably warm.

She thought she remembered the three of them talking about one of Nancy's current cases, but she couldn't be certain...something about a serial killer preying on young women in and around the Chicago area. But after that, things were mostly a blank slate. Her mind refused to unlock those final moments that preceded the devastatingly life-altering shooting. Of course, she had no actual memory of the shooting, either.

When she awoke a week later, she knew something was wrong; horribly wrong. She felt disoriented, immobile and stiff. Her brain was clouded in a fog and strange beeps and hisses assailed her ears.

_What's happened to me?_ She almost couldn't even remember her own name. No, that was silly; of _course_ she could remember her own name!

_I must be in a hospital bed, or something. My name is George Fayne. I'm 28 years old. I live in River Heights, Illinois. I teach Phys. Ed. at River Heights High School. My mother's name is Louise Fayne. My father's name is... _Oh, God! _I can't feel my legs!! _

Sudden panic seized her, and a feeling of dread hit the pit of her stomach; eyes blazing wide open. She struggled to sit up and found that singular effort to be thoroughly exhausting. The attempted action was also unsuccessful as she remained flat on her back. She could see her feet, yes, but they refused to obey when she willed them to move. She tried to wiggle her toes, and found that action to be fruitless, as well.

A new, frightening thought occurred to her, but was quickly put to rest when she realized she had normal sensation in her arms and fingers - even if those digits did feel somewhat lacking in dexterity. Her right shoulder was also extremely painful and unyielding.

She now redoubled her efforts to get her legs and feet to move. No amount of straining, flexing, or willpower brought the results she was desperately hoping to see and feel. Tears of frustration and cold, consuming fear coursed down her cheeks.

_Ok, Fayne, get a grip!_ She told herself sternly. _Deep breaths, now. Obviously something major has happened, or you wouldn't be in a hospital. Try to figure it out. Was it a car accident, maybe? I don't remember anything like that...And maybe this thing with my legs is just temporary._ O, God, _I hope it's temporary!_ She prayed silently. _Please...I just can't be..._

Just then, a nurse appeared in the doorway. Her eyes widened, and a smile lit up her face.

The next few minutes were a confusing flurry of activity and jumble of animated voices from nurses and a doctor who seemed to be in charge on the floor. As she approached, the physician said, "Miss Fayne, I'm Dr. Carole Cahill. Your parents have told me you like to be called 'George'. Do you know where you are?"

"Hospital," George said in a hoarse whisper, and she was shocked by the alien sound that issued from her throat. She swallowed to try to counteract the dryness.

"That's right," Dr. Cahill said. "You're in the Northwestern University Hospital intensive-care unit. You were brought here last week after sustaining a very serious, life-threatening injury. Do you remember anything?"

George shook her head. "What...happened to me?" she managed to say, while the woman shined a light in both her eyes.

Dr. Cahill said, "I won't pussy-foot around this, George. Your folks told me you'd want to know straight up what happened, so here it is: You were shot twice. The first bullet shattered one of the vertebrae in your lower spine. The other cracked your right scapular, or shoulder blade."

George gasped.

"Shot?"

"When you were admitted, you had lost large quantities of blood and were taken for immediate emergency surgery. Pieces from the the first bullet were removed during this surgery. Other fragments remain lodged in some soft tissue areas." She went on to briefly outline other procedures that had been undertaken to help stabilize her spine and repair the damage done by the deadly projectiles.

George squeezed her eyes shut. How was this possible? This was too much. This was a nightmare.

"George," Dr. Cahill said gently, "you've survived against some rather incredible odds. A person with your type of injury, well, there are generally two outcomes: Death...or paralysis."

_Death or..._

"No," George moaned in a painful rasp.

"I'm sorry," Dr. Cahill said with genuine compassion, her hand covering George's. "The section of your spinal column that was affected is what we call the lumbar, or lower back region. The L-1, or highest vertebra in that section was severely damaged. This type and severity of injury generally results in paralysis from the waist down."

She felt like the walls of the room were collapsing in around her. Her vision swam momentarily and breathing became difficult. Tears were now streaming uncontrollably, and she had no desire to stop them.

Her mind was in turmoil as thoughts stormed through without any real focus or control. _I'm ruined!_ _I'm...I'm...a cripple! What am I going to do? I can't live like this! Why didn't I just die? Why don't I remember anything? Bullet fragments are still in me. My spine was shattered. A bullet cracked my shoulder blade. That's why it hurts. My legs; they're useless...Where are my parents? What am I going to do now? Who's going to want to care for a cripple? I should have just died. I can't live like this. Where are Bess and Nancy?_

George drew in a ragged breath. _Bess and Nancy!_

The shock of not knowing the well-being of her friends launched George back to the present and instantly dried her tears.

"My-my cousin...my friend..." George fumbled to form her words. Her tongue felt thick and unresponsive.

"Who?" Dr. Cahill asked.

"Bess Marvin...Nancy Drew...there with me when I was shot?"

"From what I understand, I don't think they were brought to U-Hosp," Dr. Cahill said. "I'll let your parents fill you in if you have questions of that nature. They've been keeping vigil here since the night we admitted you. We'll see about moving you from the ICU soon enough."

Dr. Cahill left to locate the Faynes.

_Please let them be okay,_ George prayed. _If I've been hurt this bad, how much worse could it be for Bess and Nancy?_ _They can't be dead. They can't be. Please, let my parents bring good news..._

She drew a steadying breath to try to compose herself for her parents' sake. She figured a brave front would be the best for all concerned.

**A/N: _Talitha Cumi_ - Greek. Usually translates to 'Little girl, wake up' or 'Little girl, get up'.**


	2. Only the Beginning

Their faces were haggard. They looked like they'd aged ten years in the week that she'd been comatose. Their eyes were bleary; their clothes had that rumpled look that made George think they'd either been slept in or pulled from a hastily-packed suitcase.

Tears of relief flowed from Louise Fayne. Wordlessly, she approached her daughter's side. Her father, Gary, followed close behind, misty-eyed. He cleared his throat.

"Hi, baby," he managed to say, smiling weakly.

"We were so worried," Louise found her voice. "They told us...that first night..."

Gary gave her a warning look that telegraphed: _Don't get into this now._

"We're just so happy you're awake," Louise concluded. "We're so happy you're alive."

_I've put them through Hell,_ George thought miserably, _and now they've got to deal with a crippled daughter._

Her mind still felt like mush, and exhaustion was rapidly taking over.

"I feel so tired," she said through a yawn. Her eyes were closing.

"Then rest, sweetheart," Louise said softly, lightly running her fingertips across George's forehead. "We love you."

A sudden fear chilled Louise's heart – _What if she doesn't wake up again? -_ but she quickly brushed it aside as being completely irrational. They were out of the woods, now. The miracle they'd been praying for had happened. Now they could finally begin to leave the nightmare of the past few days behind them. The events of that night, though, would forever remain etched in their collective memories:

First was the call that rocked their world. It came around nine pm that night. The details were sketchy, but they were informed that George had been taken to U-Hosp. Her injuries were undetermined at that time, but they were told it was the result of a 'random' shooting.

Immediately after, Louise's sister, Anna Marvin, called with a desperate message: Bess, too, had been taken to hospital. A picture was quickly developing. Both cousins had obviously been affected by this unexpected act of violence.

They took two cars into Chicago; the Marvins closely following the Faynes. They eventually had to part ways when they realized George and Bess had been taken to separate hospitals.

During the drive, neither Gary nor Louise had dared to breathe a word. Cold fear coursed through them, silencing their tongues. Their thoughts were another matter. Without verbalizing it, both knew the other was thinking the same thing: _How could this be happening? Please, God, let George be alright._

They rushed into the ER and were told by the charge nurse that George was in surgery, and that they'd have to wait for the doctor to see them.

They spent an agonizing two hours watching the clock tick before the surgeon made an appearance.

"Mr. and Mrs. Fayne? I'm Dr. Edwin Kipling. Your daughter, Georgina, was brought in approximately four hours ago. She's still on the OR."

Gary held Louise to himself tightly. "How is she?" Gary ventured, terrified at the answer he might receive.

"I won't lie to you, Mr. and Mrs. Fayne," Dr. Kipling said solemnly. "Georgina suffered a very serious injury. She's critical."

Louise's hands flew to her mouth to suppress the loud gasp that threatened to escape.

"What happened?" Gary asked, throat tight with emotion. "We were told there was a shooting..."

Dr. Kipling looked at them with pity. "Georgina was shot, Mr. Fayne. Once in the lower back, and once here, in the right shoulder-blade." He demonstrated the location by pointing to it on his own back. They could only stare at him, the news barely beginning to register.

"There has been significant damage to the spine. She's also lost over half the blood in her body. We've been trying to replace the amount..."

"Oh, no," Louise whispered, the horror and gravity of the situation hitting hard now.

"Is she going to make it, Dr. Kipling?" Gary almost couldn't formulate the question.

"I wish I could answer that, Mr. Fayne. As I said, her injuries are very serious; very grave. She could die tonight. We'll have a better picture if she lives through the next 24 hours. I know it's a hard thing to ask you right now, but I need to know if Georgina's signed her donor card."

"Oh, God," Gary's voice cracked. He knew now for certain that George's life must be hanging by a thread. _They don't ask about organ donation unless they think it's a life-or-death situation._

"George," Louise murmured.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Fayne, I didn't get that," Dr. Kipling said gently.

"Our daughter prefers to be called 'George'. She's had everyone call her that since she was a child. Nobody calls her 'Georgina'."

Dr. Kipling nodded. "Okay."

"She signed it, Dr. Kipling. She's made sure we know she wants to be an organ donor in case...in case something like this..." Louise couldn't continue.

"Thank you," Dr. Kipling said huskily, mercifully filling the aching silence of Louise's unspoken words. "I have to get back now. But I promise you I will use every skill I have and every technique I've learned to save George's life."

Gary and Louise Fayne had stood there holding each other, too focused on their own fears for their only child to notice anything else.

It was a night that the entire family never wanted to re-live. But in the aftermath of that initial tragedy, all would realize it was only the beginning of things to come.


	3. Trading Wheels

**A/N: This chapter contains spoilers for Nancy Drew Casefiles #3 and #16. **

**3.**

She tried to remember what life was like _before._

It wasn't hard. All around her were reminders. She'd been in peak physical condition at the time of her injury. Her team of doctors and therapists liked to comment that she'd been fortunate to be at the fitness level of an elite athlete. It was one of the reasons she'd even survived the shooting.

Her whole life had been one of enjoying the challenges of physical activity and various sporting endeavors.

Cycling. Running. Tennis. Judo. Skiing. Hiking. Some of these she tackled competitively, others were simply recreational.

There had been highs and lows; successes and failures.

Soon after she woke from the week-long coma, a deluge of letters and cards poured in. There were hundreds of heart-felt, encouraging letters from her students, both past and present. Many of them were from the students she'd coached on school teams. Her Junior Varsity basketball girls team signed a giant card, and had received permission to present it to her once she had been moved from the ICU.

"Get well" and "Come back soon" and "WE MISS YOU, MISS FAYNE" messages were the usual fare. But George already felt in her heart and soul she wouldn't be returning to her students. She doubted the school would allow her to continue to teach Physical Education when she was physically disabled.

Other reminders came in the form of memories of the crazy adventures with Nancy and Bess. Several of those cases had sprung up unexpectedly during some of her sporting events or other physical excursions like skiing or cycling trips.

She'd met wonderful people, as well as dangerous and deadly people during these times. And too often to count were times when they'd come close to losing each other.

George sighed, heartsick. It looked like one time too many now - for Nancy Drew.

Hope had faded that she was alive when they pulled her old Mustang out of Lake Michigan.

In those first weeks after the shooting, Bess had visited when she could, her arm in a sling. No one breathed a word about Nancy. When the mental sluggishness retreated with time, George became aware that no one had officially answered her question about Nancy. She started fearing the worst.

When Bess had finally revealed that Nancy was missing and presumed dead, her consuming self-pity, rage and depression stemming from her injury evaporated instantly.

_Nancy's dead. I'm paralyzed. I could be dead, too, but I'm not. I thought it was the end of the world. But I survived. _

Quickly, George came to the realization she would have to start living her life again. She would do so not only for herself, but to honor Nancy's memory. Working with her therapists, George learned that she wouldn't have to give up sports and physical activity just because she could no longer walk.

But she missed it all terribly. She missed being able to just get up before the sun rose for a jog in Riverfront Park. She missed sparring with her judo partners. She wondered if she would ever be able to recapture the sheer exhilaration experienced when she put her body to the test either on skis or on a racing cycle.

There was, of course, skiing, cycling and even tennis for wheelchair athletes. Advances in equipment and gear were being made all the time. But those items could be costly. Without serious financial assistance, it would be difficult to pursue those sports to the extent she would like.

Years ago, she'd been the beneficiary of the generous sponsorship of Steven Lloyd, owner and president of a very successful computer company. Competing in an international cycling tournament, Steven had provided George with a state-of-the-art bike. George had nearly swept the Junior Women's Classic at the Summitville Velodrome on that bike.

Steven had also paid for George's coaching then, under former Olympic ski team member, Jon Bernsten. But Jon had been much more than simply a coach back then.

Tall and blond, Jon had stolen George's heart ten years earlier when they first met at the Webb Cove Ski Lodge. He'd been living under the assumed name of Luke Ericsen, and was suffering from a case of amnesia. He took the job of ski instructor there, trying to sort out his life following a career-ending injury. He was sullen and unfriendly to almost everyone in the beginning. As Jon Bernsten, he'd been living under a cloud of suspicion. He was suspected of sabotaging a fellow Olympic competitor's skis. The young man had died on those skis during a race Jon had goaded him into.

While Nancy had ultimately been able to prove Eric/Jon's innocence, George had been the first to uncover his true identity. She also stood steadfastly by him, defending him even when evidence seemed stacked against him.

From there, a relationship had blossomed. For two of the past four years, the pair had been dating seriously. Then Jon had been offered an opportunity to coach in the Canadian Junior Downhill Skiing program. It would be his responsibility to help in the development of the new athletes. Using his expertise, Jon would prepare them to move to the next level of elite athleticism. The group of promising junior skiers were to be the next batch of Olympic hopefuls for Canada.

Jon was torn. Skiing was his first love. If he couldn't compete himself, he could see his dreams for Olympic gold realized in the athletes he'd coach. But to do so would mean leaving the country, and possibly George.

George had just been getting established in her teaching career. She was not keen on making the cross-border move. Already having failed at sustaining a long-distance relationship with another man, she wasn't ready for a repeat. But she understood deeply what the opportunity meant for Jon, and wasn't going to hold him back for her sake.

Jon accepted the position and packed his bags with a heavy heart: George turned down his marriage proposal. The two tearfully parted ways as he left for Calgary.

While the two exchanged a few e-mails and phone calls, these were not sustained.

In quiet, private moments, George sometimes revisited her decision to stay in Illinois. Things would certainly be different if she were living in Calgary as Mrs. Jon Bernsten. And no one needed to point out what those differences would be.

_See 'Who's That Girl?' which is posted at this site for more information on Nancy's 'death'._

_See Nancy Drew Casefiles #3 'Murder on Ice' and #16 'Never Say Die' for further details regarding George and Jon._


	4. Not to Blame

**A/N: Thanks for all the great responses, dear readers! Nice to know there are George fans out there who want to know more about the character as I've chosen to portray her.**

George sat, idly rolling the chair back and forth in place. She'd just completed a session with one of the therapists, Andrea Hudson, and now had some time to herself.

It had been a challenging session, but learning to use the wheelchair was imperative. Today had again been all about mastering the wheelstand.

Andrea had George repeatedly flip the chair in a backwards motion, so it was balanced on the wheels, almost like popping a wheelie on a bike. Mastering this was one of the fundamentals in maneuvering around in the chair. She'd be able to navigate down off curbs, descend slopes, ramps, even stairs by maintaining the wheelstand.

Other exercises were aimed at improving strength in her shoulders and arms. Since she'd be getting around on arm power from now on, she was eager to get into a routine to build the muscle in her arms and shoulders. Her therapists were only too happy at her enthusiasm and were willing to oblige her - to a point. They didn't want her to overdo it. Gradually, she was regaining some of the muscle mass in her arms and strength she had lost during her stay in hospital.

Other skills George was learning to master included practicing how to right herself in the event that she fell from the chair; re-positioning herself from various sitting and lying positions; moving from chair to bed, and back again.

It was all truly exhausting; physically, mentally and emotionally. And it was all difficult going in the beginning, given the injury to her right shoulder blade. She'd had to keep the right arm immobile to facilitate proper healing.

But she was determined to be independent, and was willing to do whatever it took to get there.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn't notice she had a visitor.

"George?"

She looked up in surprise. Poking his head into the room was Charles Jonathan Springer, otherwise known as 'CJ'. The two had first met on a cycling trip when CJ was a student at Emerson. Sparks had flown, and they'd seen each other on and off a few times.

After Jon Bernsten had left for Calgary, she and CJ started dating each other again. In the months before the shooting, however, their relationship had been on a downward spiral. While they were on good terms, they seemed better suited as friends than significant others.

"CJ! What are you doing here?" George finally greeted him. She had not been expecting to see him. Not here. Not in this condition.

In spite of the state of whatever relationship they might not have, she still admired his tall, muscular frame, and smiled at his shock of very blond hair.

"Grab a chair," she offered, and pointed to one in the corner of the room.

CJ pulled it so he could sit closer to her and settled down.

His mild, blue eyes reflected worry and concern. "When I heard what happened...I just couldn't believe it. H-How are you?"

"Never better," George quipped.

"I can't tell you how really sorry I am this had to happen to _you._ It's not right. If I ever catch the guy that fired that gun -"

"CJ," George broke in, "it wasn't your fault. Shit happens. Pardon my French."

CJ shook his head, a smile creeping up on his face. "Well, I can see this hasn't affected your humor any."

"Are you kidding?" George said. "The drugs sure make me _feel_ pretty crabby. And some of the painkillers they were giving me..._whew_...I can't tell you some of the crazy hallucinations I've had."

The young man cracked a smile, then grew serious.

"What have the doctors told you? What are the chances you'll walk again?"

"Slim to none." George said, in a flat unemotional voice. "My..._injury_...was what they call 'complete'. The cord was severed. Those nerves don't regenerate. Can't feel a thing below my waist." She slapped her knees to demonstrate. _Whack! _

CJ flinched at the noise. He swallowed nervously. "I'm so sorry..."

"Everyone keeps saying that," George replied with a shrug. "But you didn't put me in this chair. You have nothing to be sorry about."

"I know that...It's just that...You didn't _deserve_ this," CJ said helplessly.

_And Nancy didn't deserve to_ die! George wanted to say. "Thanks, CJ. I appreciate how you feel about it."

He reached out and stroked her cheek gently. "George...I want you to know you're not alone. I'm -"

"CJ, stop." George said, bringing her hand to meet his as it rested on the side of her face. She paused to gather her thoughts.

She looked him straight in the eye and continued: "No one's going to think any less of you if you don't stick with me through this, and whatever is beyond. We both know our relationship was cooling. We were saying our goodbyes. You have to admit that we both knew it was going to be over. We'd be fooling ourselves if we thought otherwise."

"But I can't just call it quits now! Not when this has happened! It's just not right." His eyes were tearing up.

"And I won't hold you hostage. _That_ wouldn't be right. If this _hadn't_ happened, we would have parted ways. We're not married, CJ. There's no 'for better or worse' clause here."

"But...I'd feel like I was abandoning you...people will look at me like I'm some kind of coward for walking out on you. You know: 'There goes CJ; the guy who split because he couldn't handle his girlfriend being in a wheelchair.'"

"It wouldn't be like that. You're not a coward, CJ. I'm letting you off the hook. You don't owe me anything. And you can tell people _I_ dumped _you_, if it helps."

"You know, you're something else, George Fayne," CJ said admiringly. He stood then. "I wish things could have lasted between us. I really do."

"Me, too. You're a great guy, CJ. Thanks for the times we _did_ have together."

He bent over and kissed her cheek. "Take care of yourself, Fayne. Good-bye."

"Good-bye." she said steadily.

CJ turned and left the room.

George sat very still. She stared after him for a long time after he was gone. Then she closed her eyes and silently wept.

_See Nancy Drew Casefile #87 'Moving Target' for further details about George and CJ._


	5. Georgie and Bess

**A/N: I am so sorry for letting this one languish for so long! You'll be happy to know there will probably be another chapter coming soon, anyway. Please enjoy.**

Celebrations for the New Year came and went in a more subdued fashion than was customary. George progressed in her rehabilitation program that was tailored to her specific needs. Her parents were already becoming well-acquainted with what those needs were, both short-term and long-term.

Louise Fayne was especially dogged about learning everything she could. She was relentless with her questions and her research. She observed and took in the practical, everyday activities expected of someone taking on the role of primary care-giver so she could be ready once George was released from the rehabilitation center.

Already Louise knew what treatments George had received from the time she'd been first admitted to Northwestern to the routine therapies she was currently receiving through the Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago. She knew about the benefits and possible adverse effects these treatments and therapies could have.

She knew the paramedics had had to resuscitate George once en route, and Dr. Edwin Kipling admitted she'd gone into hemorrhagic shock on the table in the OR, which had also required resuscitation.

After tending to George that initial night, Dr. Kipling informed Louise and Gary that George's damaged spine had needed to be stabilized by fusing the vertebrae. Bone and bullet fragments had further damaged George internally, resulting in the removal of one of her ovaries. He expressed his opinion that her chances of survival were slim.

In the ICU, George had been on a ventilator and been catheterized. Pressure areas were padded to reduce the risk of bedsores, and she was routinely turned every two hours. Special attention was to be paid to her right arm due to the cracked scapular. A 3-4 week period of immobility was required to ensure the bone healed properly.

The Faynes had waited in anguish the first 24 hours, knowing George could slip away from them at any time. But they'd constantly tried to reassure each other – their daughter was strong. She was a fighter. They'd tried to convince each other George would pull through. They'd prayed, unceasingly, for a miracle.

Friends, neighbors and family had rallied around them in those dark hours.

It had been extremely hard for George to admit she'd need help doing even the simplest things in the beginning. Many of the challenges were of a physical nature. Others came in the form of maintaining her health in ways she'd never have imagined pre-injury. Letting go of her independence while undergoing rehabilitation was a different sort of challenge, and meant George had to swallow her pride daily.

There were several regular sessions with a psychologist for which George was grateful; it helped to talk about her fears and her anger, her hopes and her grief.

Certainly there was grief; losing mobility in her lower body meant there was a period of mourning that particular loss. Another loss George mourned was when doctors had gently broken the news that due to the lost ovary during her life-saving surgery, her chances of conceiving were rather dim.

Mourning Nancy Drew was another.

Then there was sadness and disappointment over other friendships that seemed to evaporate overnight. People she would have counted on to be sources of support and strength became distant and cold. Some made the first obligatory visit or phone call, but were never heard from again.

"When something like _this_ happens, you learn really quickly who your _real _friends are," one of George's fellow rehabilitation patients once informed her, while referring to the nature of their injuries.

George hadn't wanted to believe it could be true, and wasn't fully prepared for it when she experienced it first-hand. The incident with CJ Springer had been just the tip of the iceberg, really. She hadn't wanted to believe she had seen _relief_ on his face when she initiated the break-up; but the reality was it had been there.

And then there was Bess...she was acting so _strange. _She was somehow convinced that Nancy was somehow still alive, when evidence showed otherwise.

While the ambient temperature that fateful night had been quite comfortable, the waters of Lake Michigan would have been cold enough to bring about hypothermia in fifteen to thirty minutes. No one could have survived that plunge in Lake Michigan. Trying to ferret out 'the truth' from anyone who would listen, including Nancy's father Carson, Nancy's sergeant, her District Commander and even the Chief of Detectives of the CPD, Bess was becoming disturbingly obsessed.

"Until I see a body, I'm not going to believe Nancy's dead!"

These words became almost a mantra for Bess, who decided Nancy was being pursued by some organized crime syndicate, or something of that nature.

As much as George sympathized with her cousin, she didn't have the time or the energy to indulge Bess' fantasy. George considered her 'investigation' to be a foolish undertaking. Their conversations became increasingly strained as Bess would share whatever wild new discovery she'd recently made. She would float, in George's opinion, the most outlandish theories, like the one involving an ex-schoolmate who was a nurse in _Phoenix_, of all places. While the news of Lisa Scotti-Turner's death had been decidedly unwelcome, equally unwelcome was what Bess concluded from that tragedy.

Bess was convinced Lisa had seen Nancy in Phoenix, and had then been followed and killed by the same people who were somehow after Nancy.

But she seemed to return a little to herself when she found out that CJ Springer was no longer in the picture. She empathized, and was genuinely sorry about what had happened.

One afternoon soon after that breakup, Bess made a visit to the rehabilitation center, carrying an oversize shoulder bag.

Her arm was finally out of the sling, and while her collarbone was still sore, she had already regained a good deal of mobility.

"So, what's in the bag?" George asked.

"You haven't had your hair done since before...you know what," Bess said.

George rolled her eyes. "Trust _you_ to think of the state of my _hair_, Bess."

"It's grown a lot," Bess commented.

"Good. You can chop it all back again, easy."

Bess pouted. "Where's the _fun_ in that?" She started pulling out a portable hood dryer, barber scissors, comb and other hair-styling products. "You always kept your hair cut like a boy's. Isn't it time for something a little more feminine?"

"My hair has been the bane of my existence, Bess. It's curly and unruly and always had a mind of its own. _That's_ why I kept it short."

"You just never gave it a chance," Bess chided. "Besides, you're in no position to fight me in that chair. I'm doing your hair, and you're going to let me. Got it?"

George couldn't help smiling to herself. This was more like it. This was more like the 'old' Bess that had been missing for so long. George didn't want her cousin to revert to the distant, obsessed Bess. She quite honestly didn't think she'd be able to deal with such a relapse.

"Fine," George finally agreed, folding her arms. "But if I end up looking like a poodle, I'll wring your neck. Then it'll be _you_ who'll need the chair to get around."

The end result, George had to admit, was an improvement. Bess had used a flat-iron to tame the curl, and trimmed it so the ends hung just a few inches below the jaw-line.

"Whaddaya think?" Bess stood back, admiring her handiwork as George stared appraisingly at her reflection.

"I think I like it," George said.

"You look more like a-"

"Don't say it," George warned.

Bess swatted at George's head playfully. "Don't say what? I was _going_ to say: you look more like a girl than I've ever seen you look."

George sat back in the chair. Bess was actually right. The new hairstyle framed her face quite nicely, enhancing her cheekbones attractively. _I look more like a girl? After all those years of being a total tomboy...All those years of taking flak from kids in school about my name...even being called names..._

"A little foundation, make-up and eyeshadow, and you're sitting pretty, hon," Bess said.

"Hey, I let you do my hair. This is _not_ 'Extreme Makeover: the Gimp Edition', okay?"

Bess stared at George in the mirror, eyes wide.

"What?" George said.

"You just called yourself a 'gimp'."

"So?"

"So, I'd be the first to kick the hind end of anyone who dared call you that."

George grinned. She placed her hands steadily on the hand rests of her chair, and raised herself up. She leaned forward in an attempt to show her rear to Bess. "Go ahead and kick," George said, "but I should have you know that they don't take kindly to those who beat up on helpless people in wheelchairs."

A smile crept up on Bess' face when she at last realized George was teasing.

"You're amazing, you know that?" Bess said, shaking her head.

"You're not so bad, yourself, cousin," George replied. Bess leaned over and hugged George tightly.

George fervently hoped everything would now be back to normal with Bess as the other girl began packing her bag. _Maybe she's finally accepting all the changes that have happened_. _Maybe it's my turn, too..._

After Bess had left, George reflected on their conversation. A troubling thought began to creep into her mind. For the first time, it dawned on George that if she were out in the open, she was rather vulnerable in the chair. With all her judo training, she just didn't know how useful that martial art would be as a paraplegic. How possible was it to defend herself from a sitting position?

As she prepared for bed, George decided to put the thought on the back-burner. She wasn't due out of the rehab center for some time yet, anyway. Surely there was a solution, somewhere.

_So, I may look more like a 'girl', now. But Gimp-girl George Fayne is _not _going to remain helpless._ With that resolution, she transferred herself from her chair to the bed, proud that she'd mastered that skill, and fell into a dreamless sleep.


	6. Hold Me

**A/N: Yes, I've finally updated this one! As many of you may know (if you read my author profile) I was out of commission for a short while. Hopefully I'll be able to update a bit more regularly from now on. Enjoy.**

The months of rehabilitation as an inpatient at the center finally came to an end. George was released to her parents' care. She would be living with them while she continued her integration and adjusted to life in the wheelchair. Eventually, George planned to find a place of her own.

"There have been a lot of changes around the old homestead," Gary Fayne cheerfully commented on the drive. He'd sold his car and bought a van to accommodate George and the wheelchair.

"Oh, really? What kind of 'changes'?" George asked, making an attempt to sound interested. While she was excited about being 'out', she was also apprehensive. She was leaving the safety of the rehabilitation center. She had been in a place where accessibility was not a problem; where her needs were catered to by trained staff. Now the burden would fall to her and her parents. George knew full well that she now wouldn't have the luxury of wide doors, gently sloping ramps, and a whole multitude of conveniences, equipment and courtesies she'd just about become used to.

"You'll see when we get home," Louise Fayne said, smiling back at her daughter. "There's a lot of people waiting to see you."

George's stomach was suddenly in knots. _There's people waiting to see me? I don't know if I'm ready to see them. Who's going to be there? I wish they'd told me about this sooner..._

"Just relax," Gary Fayne said, over his shoulder. "I think you might actually like some of the changes."

George sat back and maintained her silence, and resolved to keep a positive attitude.

As they approached the house, George noted several cars parked on the street, some of which she recognized. She nearly teared up when the familiar exterior of the place she had lived most of her life came into view.

Gary brought the van to a halt in the driveway.

"Well, I guess I should get out now, huh?" George quipped. "It looks like the ride is over."

The aluminum ramp Gary had mounted in the van that folded upright on the inside of the passenger window and door came down easily. With unhurried motions, George lowered herself down the ramp to the ground. She closed her eyes and sat still for a few moments, breathing in the fresh air.

_Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life, George Fayne. Let's promise to make the most of it, okay?_

"Ready to go in?" Louise asked.

George opened her eyes. "Absolutely!" She took the lead and approached the front door, where the first of the 'changes' greeted her. Instead of steps, she saw what appeared to be a newly-built wooden ramp. The front door swung open, revealing a smiling Bess.

"Come on in, George!" she said cheerfully. "We've been waiting for you."

As George wheeled herself inside, a chorus of voices rang out: "Welcome back, George!"

Neighbours, friends, co-workers and students were among the dozens gathered in the Fayne home.

In groups or as individuals throughout the afternoon, they all came to greet her and express their joy that she was back.

"Would the young lady like a tour of the house today?"

George turned to see two men wearing work boots and tool-belts around their waists, their jeans soiled with sawdust.

"Burt Eddleton and Dave Evans!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I haven't seen you two in _ages_! What are you doing here?"

"We've been helping your dad around the house," Burt said, playfully puffing out his chest and flexing his arms. In the past, the blond, husky young man and George had casually paired off while Bess had been linked with Dave.

"Got things finished just under the wire, too," Dave added. "The other guests kept you distracted just long enough for us to finish up a couple things."

"That ramp outside is your handy-work, I take it?" George asked them.

Burt nodded. "You won't believe the trouble that one took," he said with a grin. "Weight-bearing issues, friction co-efficients, all those angles to consider... Looks like trigonometry is good for something, after all."

Dave struggled to keep from laughing out loud. "Here, let's show you around, so you can see how much 'trigonometry' helped with the remodeling."

"I don't even know how much trig I remember," George commented, as she followed the pair through the entire ground level of the house, "but I guess that's why I was teaching Phys. Ed., and not Math."

For a split second, George felt a twinge of sadness. Seeing all the eager faces of some of her students, especially her Junior Varsity basketball girls, brought back the reality that a return to the chosen field in her profession was highly unlikely. With a quick shake of her head, she decided it wasn't the right time to get sulky, and returned her attention to the 'tour'.

The bathroom, in particular, had been altered. A sliding door replaced the hinged one. The original sink commode and vanity had been entirely replaced with one that would allow for easier access. George also saw Burt and Dave had installed chrome safety grab bars for assistance in lowering and raising herself from the chair to the toilet and the bathtub.

"Looks like you guys have been busy while I've been away," she said to them as the tour concluded with the bedroom. "Thank you; for everything."

"Glad to help, my lady," Dave said, bowing gallantly.

"We're all really glad you're home, George," Burt said. "We're glad you're alive and that you're going to be okay." He leaned down and gave her a warm hug. "You need anything, you call, okay?"

"All right. I will," George replied.

"Take care, George," Dave said with a wave, and the pair made their exit.

Alone for the time being, George looked around her new bedroom. It had once been one of the guest rooms, but due to its ground floor location, it was now ideal for her purposes. Stark in its appearance, George knew in the upcoming days and weeks, she would gradually begin to put her own personal stamp on it.

Bess popped her head in. "Hey, cousin," she said. "Doing okay?"

"Yeah, I think so," George answered. "Just a little overwhelmed...It was great to see everyone. Burt and Dave, especially."

"They've been working really hard to get things done for you. When they heard what had happened to you, and that your dad wanted to fix things up, they jumped at the chance."

"Has everyone left, now?"

"I think so...except for one or two people, maybe...I'll go see..." Bess turned and went out into the hall.

"Bess, you don't have to..." George called out. She was about to follow the other girl when she heard approaching footsteps. For a moment she thought Bess was returning, then realized the footfalls were heavier-sounding than her cousin's. George glanced up as a shadow fell across the open doorway.

All she saw was a blond head; then the rest of the body: tall; the muscled frame visible even beneath the sweater and jeans he wore.

"_Jon?_"

George wanted to bolt. What was _he_ doing here? He was supposed to be in Calgary!

"Hello, George."

Hearing his voice after so long caused her to freeze, mid-breath; caused her thoughts to scramble. She felt her cheeks flushing. Seeing his face, watching his stride as he approached her..._How is it that Jon is here, standing in front of me? _

"What are you doing here?" She stammered, still breathless; nervous about this thoroughly unexpected encounter.

"I'm here for _you_, George," Jon said, his voice thick with emotion.

"But...how did you know? I never called...I didn't want you to know..." Her voice trailed off.

"I was in our offices in Calgary. I was just doing some routine evaluations...watching some footage of some training runs yesterday afternoon...One of the office staff caught me as I was about to head home. She said I had an urgent message. Long-distance from Chicago: 'A person named Beth Marvin, or something. Says that some guy named George was hurt, and that you should get back to River Heights.'" Jon's face was tight; jaw set squarely. He swallowed, and blinked several times as his eyes misted over.

"_Bess_ called you?"

Jon nodded. "You look surprised."

"Let's just say Bess...has been a little preoccupied lately..." George said. "You heard what happened to Nancy, I presume?"

"Bess gave me the whole story when I called back. God, George, I'm so sorry...about _everything._ I had _no idea_. The whole thing is like some terrible nightmare."

"Tell me about it," George said wryly.

"I caught the first flight I could out of Calgary when I heard from Bess what had happened."

"Why?"

" '_Why_' ?! Because I _never_ should have left you."

"You didn't 'leave' me, Jon. We had...an agreement. Coaching up-and-coming Olympians was too good an opportunity for you to ignore."

"Couldn't I, though? I could have done a dozen other things that could have kept me in Chicago."

"But none of them would have had that Olympic glow to them," George said. "You had every right to pursue your dreams."

"Then I think I've been dreaming the wrong dream."

She didn't realize that tears were flowing until Jon reached out a hand and gently brushed them away.

"I've missed you, George. I've missed you so much." His voice was a low whisper, earnest and almost plaintive.

"I've missed you, too." George replied guardedly, after managing to compose herself. She didn't want this to play out like a carbon copy of her meeting with CJ Springer. She wasn't ready to hope for a reunion, only to have those hopes dashed.

"Can I hold you?" Jon asked, holding open his arms.

"What?" George asked, surprised and confused.

"I just want to _hold_ you. I know I'm sounding like a crazy person, but... After Bess explained everything you've been through, I just want to convince myself you're alive. I want to know I'm not dreaming all of this."

George looked into his blue eyes for several beats, and saw there no guile.

_I'm the one who turned down his proposition,_ she reminded herself. _I'm the one that effectively ended this relationship._

"Yes." George finally replied. "You can hold me." _If this is what you want, you'd better not ever let me go._

Without warning, Jon scooped her out of the chair in one fluid motion and drew her tightly to him. She let out a yelp of surprise, and her arms automatically wrapped themselves around his neck. When he had her securely in his arms, George leaned her head against his.

She felt his day-old stubble as she brushed his cheek with hers; scented his familiar cologne.

"I'm so thankful you're alive, George," Jon whispered. "I keep going over in my head what Bess told me. If you had died that night...I don't think I would have been able to forgive myself for not _being_ there. It made me realize how much I still love you. It made me realize I want to be with you."

"I still love you, too, Jon," George said. She was savoring the moment, feeling so safe in his strong arms, that she didn't want to say anything that would ruin it. But the worry that Jon would soon be put off by her physical disability began to gnaw at her.

"I'm glad to hear you say that you still love me," Jon said, "because I've made a decision. I'm going to resign from my position with the team."

Shocked, George cocked her head and stared at him. "Have you lost your mind? Jon, you need to think hard about this one. I know you love me, but things are..._different_ from when we were last together. I'm not the same person anymore."

"Look, I understand what you're trying to say. But just because you can't walk anymore doesn't mean you're a different person."

"It's not that easy," George countered.

"I fell in love with George Fayne; not George Fayne's legs," Jon declared.

Struck by the seriousness of his tone, George had no words of rebuttal.

_He's serious about this. He wants to come back, and he wants to be with me. Fayne, if you're smart, you'll hold onto this man. He loves you for you, and not for your physical attributes. You're never going to find another guy like that; not in a million years._

George took a deep breath, and felt a certain peace come over her.

"Well, you know, I happen to think I did have some really nice legs before all this," George said, giving Jon a teasing smile. "It was one thing I allowed myself to be vain about, since I wasn't about to compete with Bess and Nancy in the beauty-queen department."

"You're beautiful to _me_," Jon said, and kissed her.

**TBC**


	7. Out of the Mouths of Babes

She could see them looking at her from the corner of her eyes. Two children were casting occasional glances in her direction and whispering. She was quickly getting used to the stares she got when out in public. Instead of letting it unnerve her, as she was tempted to do, she did her best to ignore it. Sometimes even initiating a conversation about the wheelchair proved to be an ice-breaker that would ease the awkward moments. She generally tried to be much more forgiving with the looks she received from children, mostly due to her training as an educator. Her love and respect for the youth she used to teach had granted her that patience.

Today, as she sat in the public library, focused on the information on the public, internet-access computer, she knew she was conspicuous. She adjusted her reading glasses, and clicked on a website offering information about civil engineering.

Even as she tried to ignore the two kids, she still caught a few snippets of their conversation.

"_You_ ask her," one voice carried over.

"...but what if..." the other child's voice trailed off.

"Fine! We'll both go," the first voice asserted.

_Here it comes,_ George thought. She was expecting to answer questions about the chair and about how she got to be in it. For kids, she had a sanitized version of the story down pat. Kids, she decided, didn't really need to know all the horrible details. They didn't need to know that she had been shot. Explaining that her spinal cord had been damaged in 'an accident' was usually enough. Presently, the youngsters were at her side.

"Excuse me," the younger-looking of the pair asked tentatively, "but are you Oracle?"

Baffled by this, George cocked an eyebrow. This wasn't what she was expecting. "I'm sorry..._what_?"

The second child groaned and rolled his eyes. "_No_, stupid!" He admonished. "What my friend means is: are you _like_ Oracle?"

George shook her head, "I don't know what you mean, guys. Who, or what, is 'Oracle'?"

Their faces lit up eagerly.

"She's a comic book character," number two said excitedly. "She used to be Batgirl, see. You know, Barbara Gordon? Then she got shot by the Joker. Since she couldn't use her legs anymore, she had to be in a wheelchair. Now she's an expert on computers and stuff, and that's how she helps the other superheroes catch the bad guys."

"Yeah! When we saw you, we were like, 'she could be Oracle!' You look almost like her, too. She's got her hair cut a lot like yours, except Barbara Gordon's is red. She's a genius and she wears glasses like you, and has a wheelchair like you."

George gave a wry smile. "Well, she definitely sounds really cool. But I'm not Oracle, and I only wear glasses for reading. I _wish_ I were a genius-computer expert, though!"

"Can we show you?" child number one said, motioning to the computer. "We could show you some websites about Oracle."

By now, George was finding herself intrigued.

"Sure, go ahead," she found herself saying, backing up to allow them space to get at the terminal. "My name is obviously not 'Barbara', either, but you can call me George."

"Isn't that a boy's name?" child number one glanced at her quizzically.

"I guess it is," George replied, "but it's short for 'Georgina'."

The child looked dubiously at George, then said, "Yeah, 'George' is definitely better. I'm Tyler, and my buddy's name is Josh."

"Nice to meet you, Tyler and Josh."

"Okay, there! That's a good site," Josh said excitedly, after Tyler had 'Googled' search terms 'Oracle' and 'Barbara Gordon', and returned a number of hits.

With fascination, George scrolled through pages of several fan-made websites dedicated to the comic character.

"Cool, huh?" Tyler said, beaming excitedly.

"Yes, it is." George said. She had to admit it really _was_ cool.

She'd never imagined there could be a strong female comic book character – with a disability – that could have such an obvious appeal to kids like this. It was little unnerving to think that kids this young had been exposed to the violent nature of Oracle's origins, but George knew that modern comics and graphic novels were far from the benign entities they had been in the past.

"You could totally be like Oracle, you know," Josh said. "She's trained lots. She knows how to fight. You look like you could be pretty tough."

_I'm more like her than you think_, George thought. It bothered her more than she cared to admit the similarities she read between herself and the comic character. Barbara had been shot, just as she had, but she wasn't about to admit that to Josh and Tyler, sticking to her decision that kids just didn't need to know.

What was compelling, though, was the form of Filipino martial arts that the comics showed Barbara Gordon learning. George made a mental note to herself to look into _Escrima. _From what she could tell, it utilized wooden sticks for combat. The Barbara Gordon character seemed to have retractable batons instead of sticks hidden in her armchair rests for easy access.

"Thanks, guys. This was really neat," George said, after clicking off another fan-made site.

"You're welcome," Tyler replied.

"My mom's probably looking for us by now," Josh said, glancing around the library furtively, "so we'd better go, Ty."

"Okay," Tyler said, stepping away from the terminal. "It was real nice meeting you, George."

"Yeah," Josh added, "nice meeting you."

"Pleasure was all mine," George replied honestly, and gave both boys a shake of the hand.

As they scurried off in search of Josh's mother, George took a little time to reflect on the exchange. Kids never ceased to amaze or surprise her. Far from the mis-behaved brats and juvenile delinquents the younger generation were made out to be, it was encounters such as these that reminded her how special children were. Josh and Tyler had provided her with an exciting avenue to explore.

_Escrima_. George closed down her internet window and signed onto the library's catalogue search page. She discovered the word was spelled with either a 'k' or a 'c', and that there were a couple titles about the fighting style available for check-out.

_Hmm...Main floor, non-fiction section_, she thought, and scribbled down the call number on one of the pieces of scrap paper available at the terminal. George wheeled herself away to the stacks in search of the book. When she had found it, she felt an unexpected thrill as she flipped through the pages.

_This could be the answer I've been looking for_,she thought, regarding her fears about being vulnerable in the chair. _I could defend myself like this. _It finally felt like she had some sort of direction, a sense of purpose. The feeling was wonderfully liberating.


End file.
